


Love Where the Lightning Strikes

by eqyptiangold



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Jealousy, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, POV Draco Malfoy, So much divergence, Unreliable Narrator, so many misunderstandings, we threw canon out the window really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26653486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eqyptiangold/pseuds/eqyptiangold
Summary: When Potter slams Draco into the wall and snogs him, interrupting a biting insult, Draco’s first instinct is to press into it with enough rough vehemence that he’ll be able to pass it off as— well. He’s not quite sure yet, but he’ll be able to pass it off as something other than what it is: an embarrassing desire to savour any chance he can get at kissing Potter.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 10
Kudos: 317





	Love Where the Lightning Strikes

When Potter slams Draco into the wall and snogs him, interrupting a biting insult, Draco’s first instinct is to press into it with enough rough vehemence that he’ll be able to pass it off as— well. He’s not quite sure yet, but he’ll be able to pass it off as something other than what it is: an embarrassing desire to savour any chance he can get at kissing Potter. Even as half of him is luxuriating in the kiss, the rest of Draco’s consciousness is already planning his scathing remarks for whenever Potter’s booming heterosexuality has him pulling away.  _ Thought you could scare me, Potter? I’ve had to watch Granger and Weasel snog all over the castle; my stomach can handle even that.  _

And yet, if Potter kisses him much longer, Draco’s at risk of popping a boner, despite the stress actively working against it. It’s quickly beginning to look like he overestimated Potter’s heterosexuality. Abrupt enough to make Draco startle, Potter steps even closer and slides one hand between the fasteners on his robes to press a warm palm against his ribs. With his other hand, Potter wraps it around his waist and drags Draco onto his thigh, slotting their legs together lewdly. And— oh. That’s Potter’s cock, hard as diamonds and rutting against Draco’s thigh. The Boy Who Lived had stepped forward as he’d pulled Draco into straddling his leg, leaving Draco off-balance between the cool stone wall and the hot press of Potter’s body. Draco is trapped, his cock rubbing delightfully against Potter’s leg and toes barely brushing the floor. 

He loses the battle against his growing hard-on. “Fuck, Malfoy,” Potter breathes, finally pulling away far enough that Draco can  _ think _ . The sound of his surname on his nemesis’ tongue is what at last has the blond stepping away with his hand drifting subconsciously to his hair. Potter’s hand drops, making Draco distinctly aware of the loose buttons on his own robe where the Boy Who Lived’s hand had been. Insecurity sinking wretchedly into his bones, he quickly yanks his robes shut and smooths his long hair. 

Draco’s mouth opens, his mien darkening abruptly like an umbrella being closed. He can’t even muster up some form of withering remark; something, anything to offset the embarrassment that will come later. With Potter standing there, face flushed and expression unreadable, Draco’s is made succinctly aware that he has no idea what Potter’s motive is. Hands beginning to shake, he turns with as much a grandiose manner as he can manage and storms down the hall. Potter might say something, but Draco can’t hear over the sound of his blood roaring in his ears. 

— 

When morning comes, Draco finds himself staring blankly at the ceiling without care for the bustle of the other Slytherins getting ready. Before long though, Blaise’s voice, crisp and enriched with sarcasm, pours past the emerald hangings of the bed. “Draco,” he croons, and a silk pillow slips through the bed curtains to collide with Draco’s shoulder. “Up you get, sleepyhead.” Distantly, Draco registers Theodore’s soft snort at the moniker. 

“Sod off,” Draco grumbles, sliding out of bed with Blaise’s pillow in hand to whack him. 

“Oh, come on darling,” Blaise mocks, grinning and weaving an arm around Draco’s neck. “The bedhead is proper charming.” He ruffles the white blond hair, long enough to hang around Draco’s jaw and brush against the pale skin over the beginning of his spine. 

“Tosser,” Draco mutters, and he slips out of Blaise’s hold to get ready. Once in the bathroom, he tugs the longer hair near the back of his neck into a loose twist, leaving some ash blond hair hanging loosely around his face. After that, it’s just down to dressing in his school robes and other morning ablutions, all with the looming dread of the consequences from Potter’s kiss. Beneath all that, Draco feels the vestiges of his unaddressed arousal left from said snog. 

“Stop wanking and get out here,” Blaise calls, his hand drumming restlessly on the bathroom door. Draco, who had been staring in the mirror with his mind replaying the memory of Potter’s thigh against his cock through layers of clothing, jerks slightly in surprise. He scowls at his reflection until the reawakenings of his morning wood dies down, and exits the bathroom with a flair of his robes. “Good morning gorgeous,” Blaise greets, seemingly having latched onto the sarcastic flirting after seeing what a rise it got. 

“You’re a git,” Draco replies, mock-pleasantly. Vincent and Greg are waiting impatiently to head to breakfast, lurking by the door and seemingly discussing the food. Theodore has already left, leaving his bed half-made. Although he’s loath to admit it, Draco knows that means Potter is probably just arriving at the Great Hall. 

“We’re late, hun,” Blaise replies, disregarding Draco’s response. “Pansy’ll have our heads if we make her wait long.” He once again throws an arm around Draco’s shoulders, letting Draco lead them to the common room with Vincent and Greg following excitedly. Pansy is lounging on the couches, talking to an attractive student in the year behind them. He’s perched next to her, clinging onto every word. 

As soon as Draco leads the way into the common room, she slides gracefully to her feet and abandons the boy on the couch. “Had to adopt a paramour in our absence, did you?” Blaise asks, and she gently slaps his arm in reprimand. 

“It’s not my fault you ladies took so long,” she replies, looping her arm in Draco’s on Blaise’s opposite. As they walk to the Great Hall, Draco is somewhere between leading them and being half-carried between their arms. 

By the time they take their seat at the Slytherin table, he’s nearly forgotten about Harry sodding Potter and the snog. Vincent and Greg’s happy eating noises, even louder than usual with the delay, are an adequate distraction until Draco has finished his breakfast with Pansy whispering the latest gossip in his ear. Blaise sits on his other side, occasionally chiming in with his mouth pressed against Draco’s neck and hands borderline groping him. Pansy doesn’t even ask, long since used to Blaise’s relentless pursuits of finding any and every way he can irritate his dorm mates. Theo, smirking and nibbling pear slices across from them, seems to be delighting in the fact that he’s not the latest target. 

“Is Potter homophobic?” Pansy asks suddenly, and Draco feels his heart drop. She can’t know about—. She just—  _ can’t _ . 

“What?” he manages, trying to remain calm and force his blush into submission. 

“He’s scowling at you more than usual.” Draco can feel Blaise’s head move against his as they both look over at the Boy Who Lived. His hair is the same as always, looking like he’s just been shagged in a windstorm, but Potter’s glare is a new one. Draco has grown used to the scowl clinging to him—and, in recent months, the glare turning into something of a contemplative stare. Potter’s attempts at expressing hatred while maintaining his smooth skin, Draco assumes. Today, however, those eyes ( _ pretty green eyes, Draco’s traitorous mind supplies _ ) are locked onto Blaise’s grip on Draco. Watching the Gryffindor’s glare, Blaise carefully slides his hand into Draco’s robes. It forces a sudden flashback to Potter’s hand from yesterday. 

Something that looks almost like hurt or regret flashes against the scowl on Potter’s face. With a bang that’s drowned out by the racket of the Great Hall, he slams his plate down and wrenches out of his seat. Pansy giggles softly as he storms out of the Great Hall, smoke practically pouring out of his ears. 

A small part of Draco curls up miserably at the realization that Potter might consider casting Unforgivables if he ever found out about Draco’s… his  _ crush  _ on Harry sodding Potter. It only makes him more anxious about the snog. “The great Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived, hates gays,” he snarks, forcing a snicker. 

“And here everyone thought he was such an accepting beacon of hope,” Pansy mocks, leaning in to rest her head on Draco’s shoulder. “Gryffindors,” she mutters, and Draco can hear her eyes roll. The booming school bell interrupts Blaise’s response, and the Great Hall breaks out in the pandemonium of students rushing to scarf down their last few bites and head for class. 

“You made us late,” Blaise complains in Draco’s ear, smoothly standing up and lightly kicking Draco’s ankle as he follows. Usually, they would leave breakfast early to avoid the ensuing madness. Once both boys are standing, Draco offers a hand to Pansy and she gracefully accepts. Greg and Vincent are shovelling eggs and bacon and cereal into their mouths, and Draco strictly beckons them to follow before they end up late to class with food on their robes. 

“We have potions with the Gryffindors,” Pansy says, pointedly looking at Blaise’s hand on Draco’s forearm. “Do you think enough overt displays of suggested homoeroticism could distract Potter into causing an explosion?” Draco and Blaise snicker, and Vincent and Greg stare blankly for a minute before Draco provides them an explanation. 

When they reach the potions classroom, Potter is already sitting in the back row with Ron and Hermione looking at him in confusion from the table next to his. As Draco and Blaise look for a seat, conveniently located where Potter will be able to see them well but Professor Slughorn likely won’t, Draco can feel Potter’s eyes tracking their movement. Pansy leans in to murmur a suggestion in Blaise’s ear before slinking away to sit with Theodore. He looks resigned but fond as she ruffles his hair. Draco is abruptly distracted from the other two Slytherins when Blaise drops a hand to gently cup his ass. 

For the rest of class, even as they’re cutting ingredients and stirring their potion, Blaise remains pressed against Draco with roaming touches. By the time they’re bottling the potion for grading, Draco is beginning to feel the heat rushing through him from yesterday’s unattended boner and the inevitable reaction to a boy as attractive as Blaise groping him for an entire class. 

Thus, when Potter grabs Draco’s wrist and tugs him as he’s exiting the potions classroom, it sends a sharp flush of arousal through him. “Merlin’s _ tits, _ ” he hisses in surprise, turning on Potter with a scowl. “Control your caveman urges, would you, Potter.” 

“We have to talk,” Potter replies, scowling viciously when Blaise and Pansy appear at Draco’s side. “ _ Alone _ .” Blaise snickers imperiously, looking down his nose at Potter and sliding an arm around Draco’s waist. Potter’s expression follows the movement, and his expression seems to be at war with itself. “Draco, please,” he says suddenly, face falling into something that Draco can’t read. 

The use of his first name seems to be enough to shock even Pansy into silence. She takes Draco’s elbow gently, and he leans into her for a moment to reassure her. “Fine, Potter,” he says, gently detaching from his friends to follow Potter further down the corridor. They turn a corner into an isolated deadend, and Potter is suddenly standing far too close. Draco has to focus intently on staring boredly at his nails to avoid looking at Potter’s mouth. 

There’s a pause, long enough that Draco begins to form a biting comment—  _ Are you so insecure about your grades that you’re trying to sabotage mine by making me late, Potter?  _ Finally, though, Potter barks out, “Zabini?” 

“He’s not Blaise to you?” Draco retorts, spine still tingling from Potter’s use of his first name. 

“Fuck off,” Potter retorts, sounding frustrated. “You- What do you want from me, Draco?” he finally asks weakly. 

“ _ You _ asked to talk!” Draco snaps waspishly, feeling off-balance from how much his subconscious seems to love his name in Potter’s mouth. Potter sputters incomprehensibly, one hand raking through his hair in the corner of Draco’s eye. 

“Are you and him dating?” Potter spits out eventually, and Draco sighs softly. 

“None of your business,” he retorts petulantly. He’s no longer in the mood to laugh at Potter’s visible discomfort with his sexuality. 

“Not my business?” Potter repeats, face darkening until it’s red enough to show through his tan. “How-” he starts, before there’s a whirl of motion and suddenly Potter is snogging him again. For a moment, against every instinct screaming at him, Draco melts into the kiss. It’s rough, Potter’s hands finding his hair and carding through roughly enough to loosen the twist and send blond hair cascading around his face. After a moment, and then another one, Draco eventually drags himself away. 

“What the  _ fuck _ , Potter?” he hisses, stepping back with his face flaming red. Already, he knows that his ivory skin is betraying his flush. “What, you wanted to prove that I’m not dating Blaise by snogging me? You’re a fucking arsehole.” 

“I snogged you because I fancy you, you git!” Potter retorts, throwing his hands out in frustration. For a moment, Draco almost believes him. His heart leaps exhilaratingly before reality sets in. The Boy Who Lived would never,  _ could _ never fancy Draco Malfoy. And yet. Even with that realization, even with his chest aching, part of Draco wants to push. He wants to see how far he could go, how much he could get away with before whatever Potter’s ulterior motive is would be revealed. At the end of it all, Draco could lie and play it off as just fucking with homophic Harry Potter. Throughout, he could get every little stupid sappy thing he’s been fucking  _ dreaming  _ about. 

Maybe it could be enough for him to get over it. 

Exhausted and weak, Draco can’t find enough energy to fuel the part of him that’s smart enough to scoff and walk away. Instead, he stares conspicuously at Potter’s lips until the Boy Who Lived steps hesitantly closer. When Draco is still save for a quick glance up at his eyes, green and brilliant, Potter presses him into another kiss. Finally, Draco lets himself kiss back without hesitation. “ _ Draco _ ,” Potter pants into his mouth. 

They’re both late for their next class. 

  
  


Alright, so  _ maybe _ Draco is being overly clingy. It’s all for the sake of driving Potter away sooner, or so he tries to convince both himself and the other Slytherins. For all they know, Draco is only dating Potter as part of a long, elaborate con. As for Blaise and Pansy—and possibly Greg and Vincent, although Draco’s still not sure if they’re entirely caught up—they know that Draco is playing the long game. He’s waiting for Potter’s true motive to be revealed, where he can then turn it back around on the Gryffindor.

For now, Draco is annoying him with a desperate embrace around him, lips searching Potter’s neck and begging for a proper kiss. Eventually, all this fondness will  _ have _ to be enough for Potter to finally become too disgusted to continue, and maybe his dastardly plan will finally be revealed. As of yet, Potter is proving to be a better actor than Draco could have expected. Even as they sit on the couch in the middle of the Gryffindor common room, with unfamiliar eyes watching them over forgotten games of Exploding Snap and Wizard’s Chess, Potter accepts Draco’s searching arms by pulling him entirely onto his lap. He returns a snog every few minutes, otherwise tilting his head so that Draco has full-access to his neck. 

While Draco sucks hickeys into the soft skin of the Boy Who Lived, Potter rubs his back and occasionally his ass. Granger and Weasel are sitting opposite them, mostly used to the blatant PDA—at least enough that they can hold a conversation with Potter. Any complaints from the weasel and delicate sensibilities from Granger were instantly quashed when Potter had reminded them of their own excessive giggling and snogging. Draco has no problems guilt tripping them about the Golden Trio turning into a vomit-inducing duo with Potter on the side. 

Before long, Draco begins to run out of skin that isn’t already sucked purple. He can only let himself sit there, legs sprawled over Potter’s lap with hands wandering, for so long before he begins to feel like a slag. “All the red and gold is going to give me a rash,” he announces with his nose wrinkled, getting to his feet with as much grace as he can manage. He sniffs superiorly, one hand smoothing his hair where Potter’s hands rucked it up. 

Potter just snickers softly, rising to his feet with a cursory brush of his trousers. He waves a goodbye to his friends, following Draco to the ugly portrait at the exit. As always, she grumbles as Draco steps through and attempts to slam shut on his fingers. “Leave him alone, would you?” Potter complains, but he doesn’t sound all that hopeful. 

“I can make it past the big, mean portrait by myself,” Draco reminds, eyebrows scrunched disdainfully. “You don’t have to walk me out.” 

“Huh?” Potter says, as slow headed as ever. “Where are we going, anyways?” Draco blinks. Right. Of course Potter would assume that an insult to his beloved house is an invitation. Probably in hopes of distracting him from whatever latest evil Potter thinks he’s up to. 

“My dorm room is empty,” Draco offers. It’s a Sunday, meaning Blaise will be off “studying” with his latest hook-up, Theodore is probably actually studying, and Vincent and Greg are wandering around doing… whatever is it they do when Draco isn’t there. 

“Yeah?” Potter asks, smirking and gently flattening his palm against Draco’s chest to press him against the wall. A portrait squawks irritably behind him, but Draco is quickly distracted. With an ease that makes his chest flare in both irritation and arousal, Potter’s hand finds its way beneath Draco’s clothes to touch his chest. A thumb flicks over his nipple, forcing a quiet groan from Draco’s mouth. “Merlin, you’re so sensitive,” Potter whispers, sounding bloody  _ reverent _ . Draco has to reassess everything he thought about the Boy Who Lived; he’s a much better liar than Draco ever realized. 

“Fuck off,” Draco pants. “Are you deaf, Potter? I said my room was empty; we don’t have to snog in the corridor like louts.” 

“There’s no one around,” Potter replies easily, propping up his foot to press his thigh mercilessly against Draco’s cock. It momentarily liquifies Draco’s spine and he melts, his hands gripping desperately at Potter’s robes. 

“Were you raised in a barn?” he manages after a moment, batting Potter’s hands away from his sensitive chest. Draco is only a wizard and he can’t help the small rolls of his hips against his boyfriend’s muscled thigh. The realization that he’s begun mentally referring to Potter as his boyfriend doesn’t escape his notice, but he’s already begun to resign himself to the inevitable hurt that’s going to come when he uncovers Potter’s ulterior motive. After fancying the stupid git since first year, Draco’s accepted that denying his feelings to himself only made things harder. All he’s hoping for is to work out some of said feelings when he turns Potter’s still-undisclosed plan back around on him. 

“A cupboard, actually,” Potter replies, smirking as he places his hands on Draco’s hips to guide his wanton movements. 

“What?” Draco asks, daring his boyfriend to mock the crack in his voice with a dark scowl. 

“I told you that I was raised by my muggle aunt and uncle,” Potter mumbles, but his attention is plainly focused on the movement of Draco’s hips. One hand has already snuck back to squeeze Draco’s ass, which is unfairly distracting. It takes a few moments before Draco can manage to speak again. 

“Muggles live in cupboards?” he snaps, raising an eyebrow and lifting his hands to Potter’s shoulders to try and regain some control. 

“No,” Potter replies, smiling with that infuriatingly fond looking expression he’s only ever donned around Draco. It’s unfair how it makes Draco’s stomach flutter sweetly even when he knows that it’s all part of Potter’s act. “They live in houses. Orphans with anti-magic guardians live in cupboards.” 

Finally, Draco has to scramble his way off of Potter’s thigh and hold the boy at arm’s length in front of him. “The muggles made you live in a cupboard?” he asks, pique sneaking into his tone even as he tries to suppress it. Potter shrugs, looking far too unbothered. He’s still focused on Draco’s crotch, and the blond swipes his robes closed in a display of frustration. There’s something ripping through his veins that feels suspiciously like sympathy, although it’s leaning more towards rage on Potter’s behalf. 

“Like you had it much better with your dad,” Potter retorts. It’s a bitter reminder of the first night they’d undressed entirely around each other; while cuddling, after exchanging mutual blowjobs, Potter had traced a thin scar on Draco’s back. Embarrassingly vulnerable after his first sexual experience with someone, Draco had detailed the evenings spent standing against the wall of his father’s office. He’d forced himself to speak calmly as he had mentioned the merciless precision of the cane striking his back. The night his father had been too drunk to worry about leaving marks and his mother out at a dinner, and Draco had fallen asleep on his stomach without anyone to retrieve the potion to prevent scarring. 

“He did it to make me stronger,” Draco argues, the word stale on his tongue. Out loud, with Potter watching him with those emerald eyes, it makes less sense than it had in his head on nights when Draco was kept awake by the relentless agony. His father had forbade the use of any healing magic beyond the anti-scarring. 

“By beating his child?” Potter barks, hands clenching into fists at his sides. 

“Those filthy sodding muggles raised the Boy Who Lived in a cupboard,” Draco growls back. 

“And I hate them!” Potter’s face is far too pitying; the fake sympathy makes Draco’s skin itch. “Why do you stand by your dad?” 

A retaliation about Potter’s dead parents finds its way to the tip of Draco’s tongue, and he instantly steps back before it can escape. “Sod off, Potter,” he says, voice falling flat and tired. Hair hanging around his face in a mess from Potter’s hands, Draco turns on his heel and storms away with as much fervor as he can manage. It’s embarrassingly little. Even more embarrassing is how exhausted he feels from the argument. Clashing with Potter used to bring him a sense of victory. 

“Draco, wait!” Stubbornly loose shoes smack the floor and echo against the arching ceilings as Potter gives chase, but Draco steps on a staircase just as it disconnects from the floor they were standing on. There’s a sound, and suddenly Potter is leaping down from a different staircase and hurtling towards Draco. 

“Merlin’s fucking tits!” Draco yelps, whipping out his wand with a yell. “Levicorpus!” Potter is abruptly thrown sideways by the magical grip on his ankles and he tips upside down, robes cascading around his head. Loose quills and other paraphernalia rain down around Draco, and Potter barely manages to snatch his wand out of the air. “Are you fucking barmy?” Draco screeches. Hand shaking, he lowers Potter and growls the counter-spell that drops him neatly onto the steps. 

“I’m sorry,” Potter says immediately, even sprawled across the stone on his back with his robes around his neck. “I shouldn’t have brought up your father.” 

“ _ That’s _ what you’re sorry for?” Draco snaps, hands shaking from what he wants to be rage, but feels far too much like fear. “Were you trying to crack your fucking head open?” He can feel that his face is flushed an ugly red, and suddenly Draco becomes aware of just how many students are standing on the other stairwells, watching them. “Or just trying to get me blamed for your death?” he adds, furiously tucking his wand away. 

Potter stands up. “Of course I wasn’t. You  _ know _ I wasn’t. Can we talk in your room?” he asks, voice lowered. For someone so dense, he’s disturbingly gifted at reading Draco’s discomfort. 

“You’re a git,” Draco replies. Then, quieter, “I would kiss you if there weren’t so many people watching.” 

“I would kiss you even with them there.” 

“Like you need more attention,” Draco mutters, but he turns and heads for the Slytherin common room with Harry on his heels. At the entrance, Draco pretends to whisper the password but he knows that Potter has heard him. He thinks back to the night Potter had snuck in with his invisibility cloak and crawled into Draco’s bed, tugging him across Potter’s chest and murmuring “Missed you.” 

The other Slytherins in the common room look up, blessedly free of the starstruck looks that the Gryffindors favour. Instead, they all smirk and exchange mean giggles meant for Potter. Draco’s tricks on Potter have quickly become the secretive talk of the Slytherin house. Still, as soon as they enter the empty dorm room, Draco drags him into a kiss. “You could have died, you git,” he growls, biting Potter’s lower lip and tugging it gently. 

“I had to apologize,” Potter replies, like it’s perfectly reasonable. He lifts Draco and props them against the wall, a position all too familiar save for the way Draco’s legs are wrapped around Potter’s waist. “I’m sorry,” he starts, punctuating it with a kiss on Draco’s jaw. 

“If you’re about to kiss all over my face, I’ll hex you,” Draco threatens. Potter grins, clearly having been about to do exactly that. “You’re forgiven, you prat.” 

“I’m sorry,” Potter repeats anyways. “Want me to suck your cock to make it better?” Draco is humiliatingly virginal and feels his face flush in response. Gently, Potter places him back on his feet and sinks to his knees in front of him. “Yeah?” Cruelly, he noses at Draco’s prick through his clothing. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Draco hisses, and he weaves one hand through Potter’s ridiculous plume of dark hair. “You’re so forgiven,” he pants. He’s too high on pleasure to focus on the bitterly sarcastic voice in his head commenting on Potter’s dedication to his cloak-and-dagger plan. 

  
  


The transition from enemies to sudden boyfriends means that Draco’s first official date with Potter doesn’t arrive until they’re a month into their relationship. 

Their “relationship,” a voice in Draco’s head corrects, tacky, sarcastic air quotes and all. Hard to build a relationship on Potter’s secret plan. Even after a month, Draco’s no closer to figuring out what it is, but he knows it’s meant to hurt him in one way or another. Potter hates, has hated him ever since that first rejected handshake. 

Draco is neatly writing forty inches on their nonverbal spells, soothed by near-silent murmur of the library, when Potter’s whispered voice interrupts. He’s seated next to Draco, their knees pressed together despite the multiple empty chairs open around their table. “D’you want to go on a date with me?” Draco blinks, a neat eyebrow arching. “Hogsmeade this weekend,” Potter elaborates, and Draco can feel a leg bouncing anxiously beneath the table. 

“Gonna drag me into Madam Puddifoot’s, Potter?” Draco grins like a shark, catching his boyfriend’s knee mid-jostle in his palm. He remembers the tales of Cho Chang and Potter in the teashop, as embellished as the rumour was. Other than that, Draco’s only frame of reference for the cafe is childish first date fantasies and, in more recent years, Blaise’s penchant for taking dates there whenever he wanted to get into their panties or boxers.

“Only if you want me to,” Harry replies, voice sweeter than it has any business being. He hooks his foot with Draco’s under the table, pressing them together from ankle to hip. Subtly, Draco slides his hand from Potter’s knee up to gently cup his inner thigh. “Hated it last time, but it’d be better with you.” He sounds so bloody earnest that it simultaneously makes Draco want to shove him away or snog him breathless. “The whole repressed gay on a date with a girl didn’t help,” Potter mutters wryly. Draco has to hide his bark of a laugh in Potter’s shoulder, gently biting him through the fabric of his robes. Part of him is already analyzing, wondering if Potter is telling the truth or just lying to further his underhanded cause. “I was surrounded by straight couples snogging over tea,” Potter bemoans, dropping his head like a lament, and Draco feels a giggle creep past his lips. “Cho cried and then she stormed out,” Harry hisses in a whisper, his eyebrows up and mouth stretched in a grin at Draco. 

Draco has to cast a quick Muffliato so he can let out the ugly laugh that’s trying to escape. “You’re gay?” He sounds a bit hysterical, he realises. 

“It’s a surprise?” Potter retorts, pointedly dropping his hand on top of Draco’s on his thigh. All Draco can do is shrug. Bisexual, alright, maybe he could have believed that to be one kernel of truth in the elaborate web of lies that Potter has surely weaved throughout this relationship. 

Rather than voice those thoughts, Draco carefully caps his inkwell and turns more comfortably to look at his boyfriend. “Where’s this date meant to take place then, Potter?” 

Grinning like a loon, Potter slings an arm around the back of Draco’s chair. “We can go wherever you like,” he replies. Absently, Draco nudges the glasses up Potter’s nose; his hand momentarily freezes upon realising what he’s done, pale fingers brushing Harry’s cheek. Potter gently leans into the touch and his smile softens. Infuriatingly, it makes Draco’s stomach twist with raw delight. 

“Not much of a date,” he mocks habitually. Soft skin warming quickly beneath Draco’s palm, Potter’s face flushes a burnt red. His smile falls in an instant and Potter turns slightly away from Draco’s hand. “As long as I get a kiss at the end of the night, I’ll count it,” Draco corrects, his fingers curling beneath Potter’s chin to drag his gaze back up. Internally, Draco attempts to convince himself that he does it for the sake of maintaining pretenses. He ignores the swooping feeling when Harry’s expression lights up again. 

“Is that a yes?” Potter asks. Draco wonders if the Boy Who Lived is aware of his fingers fussing and curling around Draco’s hand. 

“Obviously,” he mutters with a half-hearted eye-roll. “Try to wear something that won’t embarrass me.” Potter merely grins and leans in for a quick peck. It’s still enough to make sparks fire in Draco’s chest. 

On the morning of the date, Draco refuses to admit that he spends a few long minutes agonizing over what to wear. Blaise offers him enough adequately mocking comments, but still nudges Draco aside and picks out a top and trousers for him. After Draco dresses, Blaise smacks his ass and grins irritatingly. “There. Don’t worry, lamb, dressing for a first date is always difficult— even if it’s just a fake one for a Gryffindor. You can finally tell me how big the Boy Who Lived’s cock is as payment.” Draco feigns a punch at Blaise’s bollocks and grins when the other boy flinches with his entire body. 

“Bigger than yours,” Draco quips and Blaise makes a loud, offended noise. “And to think I was actually considering thanking you.” He dons his robes and sweeps out of the dorm to Blaise’s whiny protests fading behind him. 

Pansy, lounging on the couches in the common room, rolls her eyes emphatically when Draco enters. “I can’t believe you’re wearing  _ that _ for a bloody Gryffindor,” she complains, waving Draco over. With an expectant little twist of her fingers, she gestures for him to spin. Smile carefully contained, Draco drops his robes into Pansy’s lap and turns neatly. “Potter does not deserve your ass in those trousers,” she laments, tone deploring. She takes hold of Draco’s hand just long enough to tug him onto the couch, guiding his head into her lap. Her fingers begin carding through his hair just as Blaise finally makes his way into the common room. 

“Have you really seen Potter’s cock?” he asks as soon as he’s near enough. Draco pointedly doesn’t reply while Pansy giggles softly. 

“Draco, have you?” she presses, hands in his hair suddenly keeping him trapped as Blaise drops onto the couch by his feet. Leaning in, Pansy whispers, “Darling, I thought you were a virgin?” 

“Merlin,” Draco mutters, defense mechanism appearing in the form of a sharp eye roll. Admitting to losing his virginity suddenly feels like too much to be believable alongside his previous prevaricating. “Social construct,” he offers imperiously, regretting it immediately. 

“You lost your bloody virginity to Harry sodding Potter?” Blaise hisses, leaning across Draco’s legs. 

“If it wasn’t Potter I’d accuse you of actually fancying him,” Pansy says with a sharp snort.

A glance up reveals that Blaise looks far too thoughtful for Draco’s liking. “I’ll still accuse you of it,” he says, and Pansy’s hands are suddenly still in Draco’s hair. “Draco,” Blaise whispers, the three of them all sharply aware of the last few lingering students in the common room. Most have gone to breakfast already, but Draco knows better than to allow any hint of his personal life to get out. 

“Fuck off,” he retorts, tugging himself free from his friends’ grips on his hair and legs. “Doesn’t much matter either way, does it?” His voice is sharp with a hint of hurt, and embarrassment floods in alongside the whirling twister that’s already yanking at Draco’s ribs. It’s enough to have him storming out of the common room, robes forgotten in Pansy’s lap. 

When he enters the Great Hall, it’s infuriating how easily the sight of Potter makes his nerves calm. Instantly, Draco is drawn to him despite the shades of red and gold surrounding those ugly glasses and pretty,  _ pretty _ eyes. Potter seems to catch his gaze just as quickly, and he’s instantly standing and saying something to the other Gryffindors. In a flurry of robes, Potter is hurtling across the Great Hall in Draco’s direction. 

Thankfully aware of the eyes on them, Potter grabs Draco’s wrist and hurries them away into the nearest empty corridor. A jab about Potter’s caveman tendencies gets lost when Draco is suddenly wrapped in warm arms around his waist and an emerald gaze inches from his own cold, grey eyes. “Hi,” Potter greets, grinning. “I like your… outfit,” he concludes, stumbling over the word as his eyes drag down Draco’s body. 

“You’re so straight,” Draco mutters. 

Potter grabs his ass in response. “Do you  _ want _ me to get on my knees right here?”

There’s a hint of seriousness in his tone that has Draco responding before he can lose his senses to Potter’s touch. The corridor is empty, but it’s impossible to know for how long. “I don’t put out on the first date,” he says primly, freeing a barked laugh from Potter. 

“Technically the date hasn’t started.” Potter grins. “I already know that you do before the first date.” Instinctively, Draco gives him a small push with a quiet noise of offense. Potter catches himself with a grip on Draco’s waist, smiling sweetly and stepping back into his personal space. “How important is breakfast to you?” Potter asks, leaning closer until their noses touch. “We can probably find something at Hogsmeade,” he offers, hands sliding around to tangle behind Draco’s back. 

Sighing softly for appearance’s sake, Draco agrees. “Not like it can get much worse than the slop they serve here,” he bemoans, resolutely ignoring the twinge in his chest at memories of dinners with his mother. The ache is only worsened by the sharp juxtaposition between Potter’s responding fond smile and the scowls that Draco used to receive for any snobbish comments. It’s just another reminder that this is all an act on Potter’s behalf. 

Somehow, against all odds with bitter thoughts pounding in his mind and the gawking stares from other Hogsmeade-goers, Draco has a good time on the date. More than that; it’s possibly one of the brighter days he’s had in awhile. Amidst the bright hubbub of Hogsmeade on a weekend, it’s easy to forget that Potter is only there further fleshing out his deceptions. 

Even the stares are easy to get past with Potter keeping him constantly entertained and distracted. The Boy Who Lived flutters around as they wander through shops, grabbing things with the quiet amazement of someone who only found out about magic when they were eleven. When they enter Dogweed and Deathcap, Potter gasps softly. “I’ve never been here before,” he murmurs, hand tightening around Draco’s. The shop is piled from floor to ceiling with plants, dimly lit with glowing rows of light stationed above plants. It feels removed from reality, a sudden hush falling over them in comparison to the rest of Hogsmeade. Other patrons are non-threatening witches and wizards that disappear behind thick aisles of plants, visibly caring more about the plants than the Boy Who Lived. 

“You’ve only seen magical plants in Herbology, haven’t you?” Draco realises, absently looking around to locate all the plants he recognises from his mother’s garden. Hands linked, hips bumping occasionally and arms pressed together, Draco leads Potter around the shop while offering any knowledge or anecdotes that he can. Stumbling upon a small wall of cobra lilies, Draco smiles unconsciously and dances his fingers above the snakes’ heads as they hiss and sleepily weave up towards him. 

“What’re those?” Potter murmurs. 

Suddenly pulled back into the moment, Draco turns to him. “Cobra lilies. I had one in my room when I was younger.” 

“They’re just… plants that are also snakes?” Potter asks, and Draco snorts. 

“Essentially,” he confirms. “Most wizards don’t see them as anything more than plants though. Mine when I was younger was like a pet.” Draco finds himself spilling information under the false sense of security brought upon them by the ambiance of the shop. When he drops his hand to gently trace the soft head of one of the cobra lilies, he’s lost in memories of his childhood rather than the dangerous present. And yet, despite the fact that cobra lilies are often violent, this one only leans into his touch, tongue darting out. 

Suddenly Potter is picking up the pot in one hand and wrapping his free arm around Draco’s waist. “Plants are allowed in dorms, right?” 

“What? Yeah,” Draco replies, eyebrows creeping upwards in confusion. “Why?” 

Rather than a response, Potter guides them to the till and suddenly he’s spilling galleons and sickles on the counter while the shop worker looks on in quiet shock. Draco isn’t sure whether it’s because of the Boy Who Lived or because they’re two teenagers buying a plant. Still, the worker shyly shoves his tiny glasses up his nose with a fist and nearly spills coins all over the floor when he begins transferring them into the register. “D- Draco Mal-” he bangs his fist on the register and quietly yelps in surprise. Potter begins an awkward “Y’alright?” but is interrupted by the worker’s increasingly pitched, “Malf- Draco Malf-  _ foy _ ?” 

“Yes,” Draco confirms slowly, already picturing the headlines. He’ll likely be twisted as the evil Slytherin blackmailing and forcing Harry Potter to buy him a plant. 

“I’m Hassan Dibble,” the shopkeep replies, pausing then punching the register with his fingertips in an attempt at offering a handshake. Scowling slightly, Draco casts a healing spell before he can be blamed for assaulting a nervous shop worker. Then he considers the headlines about his use of magic on a poor unsuspecting wizard and sighs softly. “Thank you!” Hassan Dibble babbles, flexing his healed fingers and clapping awkwardly. “Thank you so much, uhm, Mr. Malfoy. I- I also go to Hogwarts. I’m in your year but I’m in Hufflepuff but uhm. I wanted to be in Slytherin.” 

“Merlin’s beard,” Potter mutters, and suddenly his hand is possessively gripping Draco to his side. 

“Right, well,” Draco says, glancing between his suddenly scowling boyfriend and the Hufflepuff-who-wanted-to-be-a-Slytherin. Quickly, Draco is losing his sense of the conversation. “Okay then.” He scoops up the cobra lily and offers a vague expression to Hassan Dibble. 

Potter glares, and grabs the cobra lily with a loud, “I’ll get that for you,  _ dear _ .” They exit the shop, and Potter hisses, “He  _ fancies  _ you. The cobra should have bit him!” There’s a pause, in which Draco feels so lost that he nearly loses his well-practiced poise and trips. It’s a close call, and he’s focused on staring at the traitorous cobblestone near his foot when Potter continues. “That was harsh.” The words are spitten out like they cost him dearly. “We should go back to the dorms to drop off your plant— and maybe so I can suck your dick until you cry again.” 

Draco is completely and sufficiently lost. 

—

When Draco loses his virginity to Potter, with slow thrusts and gentle hands and murmured encouragements, he nearly calls it all off. He can’t even be sure whether or not Potter was lying about being a virgin in an attempt to further trick Draco into falling for his other lies. While lying with his head on Potter’s chest, legs tangled in the afterglow, Draco nearly confronts his boyfriend. He has the words on his tongue, angry and accusing, ready to tear into the great Boy Who Lived for attempting to swindle him with fake feelings and affections. 

And then Potter nuzzles Draco’s long blond hair and lets out a pleased sigh. “ ‘M going to sleep, m’kay?” he drawls, voice deep and rumbly. “You’re perfect.”

Draco lets out a quiet, shaky breath. “Yeah. Okay.” He wraps an arm over Harry’s stomach and rubs his side gently. His boyfriend relaxes into the touch with a soft smile.

“Potter.” Propped up on his elbow, stomach flush against Potter’s side, Draco prods his sleeping boyfriend. Nearly an hour has passed since they cuddled in for a nap. Grunting softly, Potter rolls onto his side to mirror Draco. Pretty grass eyes flutter open long enough to make Draco’s stomach swoop before Potter is curling into him like an indolent cat. A contented hum, borderline a purr, rumbles through Potter’s body. “You have to get up,” Draco orders, trying to shove down his fondness with exasperation. “Someone’s going to be back here soon,” he tries again, glancing around his empty dorm room. 

“So?” Potter murmurs, voice muffled in Draco’s chest. 

“Of course the Boy Who Lived isn’t worried about breaking curfew,” Draco mocks, falling back on habitual jibes. His skin feels tight, uncomfortable; the thought of being seen by the other Slytherins, like  _ this _ ? If Blaise sees, and especially if he shares the information with Pansy, there’s no doubt that they will figure out Draco’s true feelings. 

“Let me stay the night, and no one can catch me,” Potter suggests, still curled in closely with his eyes pressed shut. 

“Go back to your red and gold bed and Owl me tomorrow, Potter,” Draco retorts. 

“Harry,” Potter corrects. Finally, he opens his eyes and pulls back enough to reveal a sleep-flushed face with that ridiculous mop of hair hanging over his eyes. For once, that just-been-shagged look actually  _ has _ just been shagged. Draco’s hand finds his hair without conscious thought. 

“What?” he offers after a moment. 

“You still call me ‘Potter’,” Potter explains, and suddenly he’s rolling with limbs tangling and Draco finds himself flopped on his back with green eyes staring him down. “You don’t call any of your other friends by their last name.” 

“Did you just friendzone me?” Draco asks wryly, squirming his feet around as he loops them around Potter’s calves. He’s scared to push past that last barrier that’s keeping him safe from the feelings that are desperate to flood fourth—have been desperate, all the way back to first year. A shattered heart is going to hurt worse than a rejected handshake if he doesn’t play it safe. 

Potter leans in and snogs him deeply, more than enough of a distraction from Draco’s worries. “Call me Harry,” Potter orders softly, hands wandering and lips brushing Draco’s. 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he retorts petulantly, hooking his feet tighter around Potter’s and rolling them. He catches him in another snog before speaking, voice lilting. “Go to your own dorm,  _ Harry _ .” A playful tone that sneaks through, stubbornly melting down the rougher mocking edges. Potter feigns a pout that makes Draco’s heart beat against his ribcage. 

“Study date tomorrow?” 

Draco snaps a peck against his boyfriend’s nose and shoves him away, dropping to his feet and standing next to the bed. “Yeah, sure. You definitely need it,” he tacks on, but Harry just snorts. He follows Draco out of the bed, sweeping him into a snog. Delight flutters in Draco’s chest. 

“Go,” he urges, gently but unrelentingly guiding his boyfriend towards the exit. As they move, Draco hurriedly helps him back into his clothes and smooths them at the door. “Bye,” he says, stepping back and feeling suddenly very naked in just his silk boxers. Potter smiles, stepping into a quick hug with one hand sliding around to squeeze Draco’s ass. 

“Come play quidditch with me tomorrow after we study. Sleep through breakfast and I’ll get something from the kitchen elves if you’re still hungry. Then we can stay out late at night and play. Alright?” Harry smiles.

“Practice,” Draco corrects habitually. He may be willing to admit to some awfully embarrassing personal truths when it comes to Potter, but liking playing quidditch with him is not one of them. It’s just for practice not fun, no matter what his quidditch-giggles may dispute. He resents the fond tone Potter uses when discussing said giggles, and the fonder grin when Potter had dubbed it. 

“Bye, peach.” 

Draco huffs. “Bye, Harry.” They hug again, because Draco needs the opportunity to hide his blush against broad shoulders. 

“Feel free to remain undressed until I see you again.” 

“And show up to class like that?” Draco pulls away from the hug just in time for Harry to grab him and drag him into a kiss. 

“Wear your robes. Think about me.” Draco holds back the automatic promise that he will. That he always does and never stops— and possibly will never be able to stop. 

He doesn’t say all that, however, because Harry Potter is conning him and Draco Malfoy is falling in lo- “Goodbye,” he says briskly, and he’s pushing Potter out while the git laughs with that irritating smile that makes Draco’s chest feel nice and warm. 

Draco crawls back into his bed, sheets still warm, and sleeps with his arms wrapped around a pillow that still smells like Harry. 

It feels like moments later that he’s groaning at Blaise to “Sod off, arsehole, I’m sleeping in.” Blaise makes a supercilious noise of surprise, pats Draco’s head like he’s a silly dog, and leaves for breakfast. When Draco does eventually slide out of bed to dress and ready himself for classes, he can’t tell if he feels more rested or not. Still, he collects his books and heads to class, feeling strangely out of place without his clingy friends locked in on either side. 

The day passes at a snail’s pace. Lunch passes with Pansy and Blaise offering sardonic commentary. Draco catches sight of Potter’s grin in their shared class, but Blaise beckons him over to sit with him and Pansy. When classes end, Potter abruptly appears at Draco’s elbow and tugs him aside. “Write my potions essay for me and I’ll suck your cock whenever you want for the rest of your life.” 

Draco arches an eyebrow as his boyfriend smiles winningly. “You already do,” he replies flatly, absently sifting through his bag. “Let’s go to the library.” Potter huffs softly, jogging along when Draco begins power-walking in the direction of the library. 

“Or we could skip, go fly our brooms, and use the extra time to have very athletic sex.” 

“Are you trying to fail out of Hogwarts?” Draco retorts, suddenly feeling struck with the urge to wrap an arm around Harry’s shoulders. He walks just a bit faster, Potter’s shoes slapping the floors behind him. “Merlin, for the first time, I feel myself sympathizing with Granger.” 

Potter laughs softly. “Don’t mention ‘Mione when I’m talking about shagging you,” he huffs, voice still bright with humour. “I saw you already working on your essay in class. We have time to stop at the dorm so I can rim you.” Draco’s foot catches on his heel and he stumbles, feeling the weight of Potter’s cheeky grin on his back. A familiar hand steadies Draco, feeling massive on his thin waist. It doesn’t at all help the heat already settling in his lower stomach. Harry steps closer, and Draco watches as his boyfriend glances around the fairly empty hallways. Past explorations with Vincent and Gregory have long since made Draco an authority on locating idle hallways. 

“We have to study,” Draco grumbles, but he can hear the missing conviction. “ _ You  _ have to study,” he corrects. “I thought up two ways to write the potions essay,” he mutters without thinking. “You can have the one I’m not using.” Immediately, panic and frustration tightens around Draco’s ribcage; he just freely offered help — and hugely lucrative help at that — to  _ Potter _ . 

“Hey,” Potter says, voice thick and confused. “Why’d you get all tense?” 

“Nothing,” Draco snaps too quickly. “Someone’s going to see us,” he tacks on, pushing out from under Potter’s arm. 

“What’d I do?” Potter asks, his voice pitching with confusion. “You don’t have to help with my potions essay if you don’t want to, love.” Draco sighs, his chest heaving once before he forces himself to relax— although he’s distantly aware of the tight stiffness as he clenches one hand in a fist. The thing is, he  _ wants _ to help. He already knows Harry can’t beat him at Potions, and he doesn’t feel that past urge to absolutely crush him. 

“It’s fine,” Draco says, taking a cooling breath. He grabs his boyfriend’s hand, squeezing once, before dropping it. They walk to the library with careful distance between them, Slytherins snorting softly whenever they pass them. Potter looks unbothered by it, but keeps shooting looks in Draco’s direction— like he thinks that the quiet mocking will affect him. Like he thinks that  _ Draco  _ is also being mocked. 

And— and Draco is just so tired. Every smirk shared with the Slytherins who think— who know— that this whole thing is to mess with Potter; every gentle brush of his fingers against Potter’s, the boy who started this whole increasingly elaborate manipulation— it’s all just so  _ exhausting _ . Draco just wants to curl up in his bed. And yet, that’s the bed where Potter took his virginity, with that fucking cobra lily on the bedside table. 

“Thank Merlin,” Draco mutters viciously under his breath as soon as they’re at their usual table in the library. He collapses into a chair, hair falling around his face. Even as he tiredly drags his books free from his bag and spreads them across the table, Harry’s worried aura is palpable around him. Draco nearly tears his second essay outline with the force he uses to pitch the thin scrap of parchment at his boyfriend. “I’m fine,” he says severely. 

“Was it all the staring?” Potter asks. 

“Write your essay,” Draco replies, breathing out a forcibly relaxing sigh of exhaustion. “Just… try not to disappoint your loyal fans by failing potions, Boy Who Lived.” Harry levels him with a searching look, although Draco already knows Potter is far too dense to figure out anything major from his expression. Eventually, Potter relents and drops into a chair, although his foot subtly locks itself with Draco’s. It’s frustratingly reassuring. 

— 

In the week that follows, a low burbling of excitement filters through the school in anticipation of the upcoming Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. Harry has relentlessly brought up both the match and Quidditch in general in conversation. It seems Draco can’t make it through the day without hearing Potter bemoan how much fun it could have been to play against Draco in a real game, rather than their clandestine midnight scrimmages. Each time, Draco rolls his eyes magnificently and reminds Potter that they’ve already played against each other. 

“But that was while we still thought each other were gits!” Potter reminds emphatically, a flailing hand disrupting the red curtains around his bed. He pauses to scrunch his eyebrows as he puzzles through his sentence, seemingly thrown off by the awkwardness of its wording. Draco sighs quietly as he smooths the crinkle in his boyfriend’s brow, stomach churning with merciless fondness.  _ Liar _ , he thinks irritably.  _ Liar, liar, bloody fucking liar. Harry Potter’s a liar and he’s going to break my heart. _ The frustration builds in Draco’s chest like a quick growing herd of weeds; months of dating, and nothing has been revealed about Potter’s plan, nor why it entails the need to feign feelings for Draco. It’s making Draco’s skin itch; he  _ hates _ losing. Slytherin’s are cunning and Gryffindor’s are reckless gits— and Draco still finds himself at a loss in a play of guile against Harry sodding Potter, king of the bloody lions himself. It’s  _ infuriating _ , and Draco just feels stuck in his frustration. He wants to send his problems off to his father to be solved like he used to when he was a child. 

“Speaking on my behalf, Potter?” he asks, forcing an easy, mocking grin across his face. “Who’s to say I don’t still think you’re a git?” 

Harry just grins and throws an arm over Draco’s waist. “Will you come to the match?” he asks, thumb rubbing slow circles into Draco’s hip. 

Draco snorts. “To cheer on the Huffs?” he replies sardonically. “Slytherin would be better off for the finals if you red and gold lot lost.” He still finds his hand digging into Potter’s mop of wild black hair, rubbing the spot that makes Potter shiver and make happy noises like some sort of dog. 

“Well, then you can hope that I catch the snitch and Hufflepuff still gets more points,” Harry replies, smiling even though Draco knows just how desperately he cares about Quidditch— how much he cares about winning. 

“Or I could suck your cock before the match. I’ll hope it distracts you and makes you too dazed to play well and you can pretend it’s for good luck.” A faint pink flush dusts Harry’s face and Draco simultaneously wants to roll his eyes at the persistent innocence and press a kiss to Potter’s cheek. “The golden boy still blushes over that?” Draco mocks, fondness creeping into his voice despite his best efforts. He considers naming just a few of the more explicit things he and Harry have done, proof that a mere blowjob mention shouldn’t make Potter blush, but Draco bites his tongue at the last second. He knows the comments would only darken the blush that’s already making his stomach flip. 

“Shut up,” Harry replies with a soft snort. He crawls up the bed and slings a leg over Draco’s hips, sitting astride him with palms flat on Draco’s ribs. “You really won’t come to the match?” Potter asks, thumb rubbing lazy circles against the fabric of Draco’s shirt. “You can borrow my invisibility cloak so no one sees you.” 

“Or you could lend me the cloak and I can go to that shop hidden away in the corner of Hogsmeade,” Draco deflects, a lazy smirk settling on his face. The sex shop hidden away from Hogwarts students was a common topic of hushed conversation and rumour in the castle. “I’ll even sneak some money into the register, you righteous bloody Gryffindor.” The blush finds its way back to Harry’s face. He squirms a bit with his lower lip trapped beneath his teeth. It’s infuriatingly sexy. “If you catch the Snitch in less than half an hour you can use whatever I buy on me. Any longer, or if you don’t get it at all, I’ll use them on you.” Harry squirms some more, his cheeks darkening from pink to red. 

The movement makes Draco abruptly aware of something pressing into him and he glances down with a lecherous grin. “Excited, Potter?” With pale, deft fingers, he gently brushes Harry’s cock through his trousers. It earns a breathy moan. 

“I still want you to watch the match,” Harry pants, even as he grinds down against Draco’s hand. 

“Merlin, shut up,” Draco huffs, grabbing his boyfriend’s hips dragging him in a brutal thrust that grinds their cocks together. Harry moans and collapses forward, legs curling around Draco’s thighs. “Good boy, Potter,” Draco murmurs, and Harry lets out a strangled moan. 

—

On the sunny Saturday morning of the match, Draco wakes up with Potter’s invisibility cloak pressed against his shoulder. He’d tucked it beneath his pillow the night before in preparation for his furtive shopping trip. When the reminder of Harry makes Draco’s chest feel warm, he considers stealing the cloak and ending the ongoing mendaciousness with that. For reasons he refuses to analyze further, he decides against it. 

Expression carefully controlled, as Draco’s not sure whether he would smile mawkishly or brood, he slides out of his bed. Theo is seated on the floor, propped up against his bed, paging peacefully through a thick tome. Next to him, draped across Theo’s trunk, Blaise is cheerily gossiping away. “Bothering Theodore again?” Draco asks wryly, absently pulling his hair loose from the bun he’d fallen asleep in. 

“Theo won’t admit it but he’s a secret gossipmonger,” Blaise replies blithely. Theodore pointedly flips a page. “Draco, are you coming to boo at the Gryff’s today?” It makes something twist acerbically in Draco’s chest. 

“I’m sure they can lose the match without my help,” Draco says lightly, receiving chuckles. While Blaise returns to talking at Theo, Draco ducks into the bathroom to get ready. He neatly weaves a few small braids with the hair that tends to fall in his face. Once dressed, Draco walks around his bed so he’s hidden from his roommates and swipes the invisibility cloak from his bed, slotting it into his bag. Offering a short goodbye to Blaise and Theodore, he slips out of the dungeons and heads for the Great Hall. 

A quick break to eat some breakfast while Pansy relays the latest drama, and then Draco is hurrying out of the castle and aiming for Hogsmeade. Absently, he notes that, unless he plans on spending hours sneaking around the sex shop, Draco could have the time to make his purchases and still sneak to the Quidditch game to watch Harry. He stubbornly pushes the thought away and focuses on finding somewhere in Hogsmeade to hide and pull on the cloak. Ducking behind a shop, he tugs his bag flat against his front and sweeps the cloak over himself. Keeping an eye on the ground for fear of revealing his trainers, Draco weaves through the rest of the small village until he reaches a tiny building crammed into a small alley, windows blacked out with tacky shades of red and black. 

When a lanky wizard sweeps the door open, Draco hurriedly creeps in behind him before the door can fall shut. The invisibility cloak does disturbingly little to hold off the scent emanating off of the stranger. Face pinched even tighter than usual, Draco presses a palm over his nose and scurries away to browse the store alone. 

Even while he’s slipping brightly coloured packages under the robe and into his bag, mentally keeping track of how many galleons it’s all going to cost, Draco finds himself drifting to thoughts of the Quidditch match. He’s moving through the aisles quickly. Quickly enough, in fact, that Draco could have time to browse the small shop in its entirety and still make it to the pitch to watch Harry play. Draco shoves the idea away in favour of grabbing a heart-shaped gag that he imagines would look charming between Potter’s lips. 

And yet, even as his extension-charmed bag fills with items, Draco still ends up slinking behind the wide counter with a handful of galleons. He stows them away in the register before scampering after a tall witch just as she’s tugging the heavy shop door open. Yanking the cloak out of the grips of the closing door just as it falls shut, Draco is struck by a cool breeze.

He’s outside, a slightly cloudy sky peering down on him, and with fifteen minutes left before the Quidditch match starts. Draco scowls at his feet as they begin carrying him towards Hogwarts, as if he could blame it on his stubborn legs rather than his heart. He holds onto the expression until his forehead begins to ache, and by then Draco is standing outside the entrance to the stands. “Bollocks,” he mutters viciously. Yanking the invisibility cloak firmly against him, Draco dashes up the wooden steps and hides himself away in the front corner of the stands. It’s already so crowded that a few invisible elbows and shoves go unnoticed. 

It’s embarrassing how soon Draco locates Harry. Clad in his Quidditch robes and making slow circles on his broom with the sun bathing him in light, the Golden Boy looks gorgeous— distressingly so. An unbidden image rises in Draco’s mind, one in which he’d be void of the invisibility cloak and Harry would zip to the stands and steal a kiss in front of everyone. A cheer from the crowd interrupts Draco’s thought process. “You’ve got it, Harry!” 

Potter turns to face the Gryffindor cheering section and grins at someone behind Draco. It leaves the Slytherin feeling strangely homicidal. He clenches his bag tight to his chest and makes attempts to stifle everything he’s feeling. Resolutely, Draco ignores any concepts of jealousy that attempt to sneak past his subconscious and into his conscious thoughts. 

Thankfully, the match starts soon and the raucous screeching of the Gryffindors and the vibrant atmosphere drowns out his thoughts. Draco finds himself looking between Harry and the small square of green in the Hufflepuff cheering section. Even from across the stands and through the invisibility cloak, Draco can make out Pansy and Blaise grinning as they jeer and boo. When Harry catches sight of the snitch, somewhere high above the grassy pitch where it’s masked by sunlight and glittering sky, Draco only knows because Blaise and Pansy suddenly look far less amused and more aggressive. Looking back to pitch, he watches Potter rapidly ascend, eyes locked somewhere only he can see. The Hufflepuff Seeker zips into the air after him, and Draco sucks in a sharp breath of surprise when yellow robes suddenly appear alongside Potter’s red. As someone who has lost more than enough midair races against Harry, Draco aggressively mutters that the ‘Puff only caught up because it’s much easier to follow someone on a broom than the tiny darting golden snitch. 

Harry puts on a burst of speed, broom wobbling as he stretches upwards, forced to let go of the broom with both hands in order to reach far enough. A gasp ripples through the crowd as the Hufflepuff seeker dips out of the way as Potter falls sideways. 

Draco swears his heart stops for a moment as Potter’s robes sweep up around his head and shaggy black hair whips around him like a crown. Familiar legs, the same lines of muscle that have wrapped around Draco’s shoulders, clamp tightly around the broom. 

Harry hangs upside down, grinning brilliantly as he brandishes the snitch. 

The Gryffindor crowd roars around him, and Draco’s heart continues to race, but this time it’s from how desperately he wants to drag Harry against his chest and kiss him. Scowling, Draco shoves through the crowd in the direction of the steps. Even in the invisibility cloak, it’s near-impossible to move rapidly through the tight crowd of delighted students. Arms swing out and scarves and hats are thrown in excitement, all while students draped in red and gold stamp their feet and move erratically with their elation. Draco finds himself jostled and his bag is thrown against his chest roughly, invisibility quickly becoming a disadvantage as he’s bulldozed off course by throngs of students that can’t see him. 

By the time he reaches the stairs— after being thrown towards them by a behemoth of a student that  _ must _ be a relative of Hagrid’s— Draco is sure he must be bruised. Scowling and trying to convince himself that he regrets going to the match, he dashes down the steps with a firm grip on his bag. A glance towards the castle reveals the throngs of students already sweeping towards it in waves, and Draco quickly redirects towards the far edge of the lake. 

There’s a stretch of grass that looks out over the lake with a clear view of the castle, hidden away from prying eyes. Draco has spent many an afternoon lying on a blanket with his head on Harry’s lap while they both study. Shouts fade into the distance while the gentle lapping of the lake on the cliffside fills the air. Sighing softly, Draco drops onto the grass and pulls his knees to his chest. He wants to see his boyfriend. Even with the logical part of his brain constantly screaming that Potter is messing with him, Draco can’t help but feel bereft without the Gryffindor. It has become horrifyingly easy to just forget, let himself melt into the relationship and enjoy it. 

Head pressed against his knees, Draco groans softly and lets himself just  _ sit _ . Thoughts melt into each other like fallen ice cream on the pavement as water rolls quietly below him and students chatter from a distance. 

Time stretches out until Draco is jerked back to awareness suddenly when someone’s hand brushes his still-invisible shoulder. “Draco?” 

Swiping the cloak away, Draco turns to look up at Harry. He looks freshly showered, face still flushed with adrenaline. “What? Shouldn’t you be celebrating, Golden Boy?” Voice lilting mockingly, Draco adds, “It was an impressive catch.” Something flashes across Harry’s face, and suddenly he’s straddling Draco’s lap and kissing him desperately. 

“You came to the match,” he pants, grinning like the sun. Another snog that takes Draco’s breath away, and Harry is murmuring, “I love you.” 

It seems as though the world freezes, background noise falling mute as blood roars in Draco’s ears. He can’t do this. A sharp ache saturates his chest and creeps into his stomach like venom. “ _ Fuck _ you, Potter,” he hisses, voice weak and quavering. Hands shaking, Draco shoves Potter off his lap and scrambles to his feet. The cloak falls around his feet and his bag lands next to Potter on the grass. One of his purchases from the sex shop rolls loose and Draco wants to sob. 

“What?” Potter shouldn’t have the right to look that sodding confused, like some sort of kicked puppy. 

“I know this is all some game to you!” Draco cries, sounding far more hysterical than he’d like. “I’m done playing along. Whatever your fucking plan was with this, I’m done. Stay the bloody hell away from me, Potter.” 

“Draco!” Potter says, his voice sounding both imploring and lost. “What are you talking about? What plan?” 

“Shut up!” Draco screeches, feeling shaky and weak. He wants to believe that Harry truly has been genuine this whole time, that it was all some colossal misunderstanding on Draco’s behalf. His chest  _ aches _ with how much he wants to believe it. “You really think I’d believe that the sodding Golden Boy loves me? That any of this fucking relationship has been anything but deceit and lies? Leave the cunning to the Slytherins, Potter.” 

Potter is displaying an impressive amount of confusion and distress. “This wasn’t real for you?” he asks, voice raising aggressively even as his face flushes red and his eyes look watery. 

“Stop it!” Draco shrieks. “Stop acting!” 

“I’m  _ not _ !” Potter roars, still half-sprawled on the ground where he fell from Draco’s lap. “You think I would do all this for some sort of, what, prank? I lost my virginity to you! I said I  _ loved _ you, you git!” 

“You  _ lied _ !” Draco feels hysterical. He just wants Harry to confess so he can start working on getting over him. 

“Draco,” Potter says severely, stumbling to his feet. “I swear on my bloody life that I didn’t.” 

“Swear on your parents’ graves then, Potter,” Draco snarls, expecting to watch that achingly familiar face contort into an expression of disgust. 

Instead, Harry flattens a palm to his chest. “I swear,” he says sharply. “I swear on their graves that this has all been real for me. I love you, you sodding arsehole.” He extends a hand. “Unbreakable Vow,” he snaps. “I’ll promise my honesty.” 

Draco’s legs give out beneath him, and he sinks to the ground like a fallen house of cards. “You really… you mean it?” He feels like the very earth beneath his feet has been ripped loose. 

“ _ Yes _ ,” Harry breathes out, voice strong in the surrounding quiet. His hand is still hanging in the air between them, and Draco grabs it and presses the familiarly callused palm against his cheek. Instinct has Harry curling his fingers around Draco’s pale cheek, and the Slytherin leans into it with a soft sigh. “Why even date me if you thought I was lying?” Harry’s voice is soft and trepidatious. 

Draco’s first instinct is to lie, to tell Potter that it was all for the sake of double-crossing him in return. Except— Harry was never lying. Harry… he  _ loves _ Draco. Apparently. “I told the other Slytherins that it was so I could figure out whatever your plan was and turn it around on you.” Harry’s hand tenses against Draco’s cheek, and he grabs it before Harry can withdraw it. “But I had feelings for you. Before you kissed me. I figured I could… I could get a fake relationship out of it, and it’d help me get over you. And I thought that getting revenge whenever I figured out why you were lying to me would be therapeutic.” 

“That’s…” Harry trails off, taking a half-step closer. 

“Don’t bother trying to understand a Slytherin’s logic,” Draco mutters, dropping his head to rest against Harry’s knee. “You going to break up with me, then, Golden Boy?” A choked noise comes from above, but Draco doesn’t bother looking up. 

“No!” Harry manages, his voice still sounding strangled. “Do you want to break up?” 

“Don’t you?” Draco mutters, feeling suddenly exhausted. A bone-deep sort of ache is settling over him rapidly. He can’t believe that the sex shop is scarcely an hour gone. Bruises from watching the Quidditch match are making themselves felt and the volatile series of emotions has drained him, only to conclude with Potter casting him aside now that the truth of their relationship has been revealed. 

“I’m not upset with you, Draco,” Harry says, voice uncharacteristically soft and gentle. “I just. I want to put this whole thing behind us.” 

“Put the whole relationship behind us and, what, back to being archenemies?” Draco mutters bitterly, hissing the word  _ relationship _ as if to combat the fact that Potter called it a mere  _ thing _ . Just a situation to toss to the past like rubbish in a bin. Draco wants to cry right there, curled against Harry’s leg. 

“No!” Harry snaps, voice loud enough to echo over the lake. “Put this whole… this misunderstanding behind us. I still want to be with you, Draco. Without the confusion and… plotting.” 

And  _ that _ , that is what puts Draco at a complete loss. Date Potter? Honestly and without ulterior motives? It sounds like one of his dreams, the sort that leaves him longing when he awakes. “You still… you still want me?” he asks, voice quiet. 

Suddenly Harry is moving, dropping to sit on the ground until they sit face to face and he can comfortably wrap Draco’s hands in his. “Your self-esteem is ridiculously low for such a poncey git,” Harry says, gaze seeking out Draco’s. “And I love you. I’m not breaking up with you. I’d rather like to never break up with you, if that’s alright with you.” 

Harry looks so bloody  _ earnest _ that Draco finds himself believing him. His chest feels suddenly warm enough to soothe his other aches as he holds eye contact with those green eyes that have consumed his dreams for years. No one has ever been able to make Draco  _ feel _ quite as much as Potter does, both good and bad. Feeling alarmingly weepy with sentiment, Draco lets himself melt into his boyfriend’s arms. 

“I love you too, Harry,” he murmurs as they press into what feels like their first true kiss. 

**Author's Note:**

> it begins with a kiss so it shall end with one too


End file.
